Wheelin' with my homies - My backpack conversion

Is transporting your massive collection of important literature breaking your back? Do your primal instincts tell you that the wheel is the universe’s most revolutionary invention? Have you always dreamt of being a pilot? Had an obsession with airports? Is it in your opinion that one hand is better than two?

Walking to class, I had the above onslaught of epiphanies as I found myself utterly overwhelmed by my two ineffectually dormant arms.

So, in an effort to occupy my hands, I quickly ran out and purchased a backpack on wheels.

Now I roll in style, my right hand slightly elevated, purposefully bouncing in stride beside my butt (which is also bouncing), grasping the plastic retractable handle, and my other pumping with confidence at my side.

When my left (free) hand isn’t pumping with confidence, it can be found taking care of those rogue boogers I meant to excavate earlier that morning.

It might even be giving some piggish men the finger as they hoot and holler provocative statements in my general direction, clearly impressed by my new-found lopsided strut. I was once told that rapper Marshall Manner (M&M) and I share a similar swag.

My caddy of knowledge makes a delightful echoing click as I walk down halls and sidewalks, alerting non-wheelers of my imminent approach. This way I don’t have to use phrases such as “excuse me” or “on your left” which have been a burden and a waste of breath since forever. Plus I have increased my aerodynamics by swinging one less arm, effectively cutting commute time in half. That means more time in Starbucks and less time dodging average students on the sidewalks.

But what happens when the weather takes a turn for the worse? My single inch diameter wheels may end up fairing the snow similarly to a Smart Car in the Antarctic.

So I stormed for ideas, pun intended.

And, luckily with some incessant Binging I found a simply steezy answer. Two fully compatible twelve inch twin tip skis, so the harsh winter months don’t take a toll on my trolling arm, in forward or reverse. Other accessories included pocket-protector shaped wax and ramps for killer tricks.

My most important test was to see how many September issues of Vogue I could fit inside, which turned out to be the entire 90s to present. Subsequently, I Instagrammed and hashtagged #Vogue and tagged @AnnaWintour who instantly promised me the inside cover in the 2014 September issue for my daring sartorial move.

She said that, though it was promised to Karl Lagerfeld, he would approve of her bold statement and send me the first of his new line of Chanel backpacks-sur-wheels in “Cadaver Skin”, which is, of course, the new black.

In the words of Cher Horowitz from Clueless, the 1995 cinematic rendition of Jane Austin’s Emma, “It’s a personal choice every woman has got to make for herself.” 

Time to rip on Rodney Atkins

Free-with-purchase of his pre-release Call of Duty video game order, Rodney Atkins sports a swanky crewneck “Black Ops” tee during his performance on Northern’s campus.

The word “T-shirt” is derived  from the shape of the short sleeved top which, when laid on a flat surface, sort of resembles the outline of the uppercase, 20^th letter of the alphabet; the very letter which is in 35 out of 46 of Atkins’ song titles, and in 100 percent of his album names.

When feeling rather melancholy about his deep connection with “T”, Atkins may drink a cup of (T)ea, while wearing a V-neck-(T) of ambiguous origin and remind himself that his home state is (T)ennessee.

The only real souvenier that fans walked away with was the $18 ticket that had already been ripped in half at the door. 

So Atkins must have been anticipating a small turn-out when conceptualizing his on-stage attire.  Just three attendees would have fully paid not only for the top half of his outfit, but obvious gaming addiction as well. Mingling work and play transitions easily when no wardrobe change is required for comfort's sake. A fine polyester blend, that shirt must be.  

Perhaps he was trying to achieve a relatable atmosphere before the small-town, northern crowd. Sure, he’s cut four albums inspired by every-day family dilemma, riddling the songs with unpredictable non-rhymes like,

“I’m your buckaroo, I want to be like you
And eat all my food, and grow as tall as you…

…are.”

but clearly Atkins is the personification of his crude lyrical poetry. Like rappers, or Madonna.

Perhaps he and Kanye hang out and brainstorm more basic daily routines to sing about, like...

"This that red cup, all on the lawn shit,
Got a fresh cut, strait out the salon...
...bitch"

But Atkins is a man truly in favor of the simpler things. He doesn't like to bog his audience down with heavy topics. Album names like “Honesty” and “Take a Back Road”, with tracks such as “Honesty” and “Take a Back Road” take me back to the time I honestly took a back road.

Atkins frequently tops his head with a ball cap, like anyone else in the world burdened with a balding head or blessed with small enough ears.

In fact, during an in-depth Google Image search, I was only capable of finding a handful of photos sans billed, mesh hat. Being both over, and underwhelmed by this discovery, I simultaneously pondered the gender of Atkin’s androgynous lead guitarist. Like Sandy in “Grease”, he also has to be sewn into his pants off set.

Unfortunately I now have to live with the knowledge that Atkins and I share the same day of birth. But for clarity and posterity, my favorite letter is A, tea is for pussies, I’m from Michigan and my video game knowledge only extends as far as Pokémon Snap for N64. Which isn’t every alliterative, but neither is he.

Lunch time gone mobile in Marquette

New (ish) to the Marquette cuisine scene, los Tacos is providing a non-traditional method of ethnically inspired food distribution - lunch time gone mobile. 

“All I want to do is make tacos for the people I see every day.”

Owner and creator of Dia de Los Tacos, Mike Walker’s “Taco Mission” is that of gallant knight whose trusty stead is a skull-embellished blue truck, with a heart of stainless steel and sword of tacos, sharp as the house-made hot sauce.

In person, he’s a stone-cold rocker with a booming voice and personality to match, but his endearing love for community and culinary service bears a slight undertone of a grandmother surrounded by family on Thanksgiving.

Co-owner and wife, Terilynn Walker, of Dia de los Tacos simply states, “I married this man,” with what appears to be true love.  

            While the modern chuck wagon has been a trend redefining the food service industry since the Oscar Meyer Wiener truck hit the streets 1936 passing out wiener whistles, los Tacos was debuted June 28, 2013, boasting a first for Marquette.

            “Lots of people only have 20 minutes for lunch,” said Mike. “We can supply a fresh and healthy alternative to microwavable meals.”

            Finding them doesn’t have to be a wild goose chase. The business starts and ends with social media updates that are on par with middle-school aged girl set loose on a smartphone. You can and will find them. Rolling down Fourth Street to see the ostentatious skull-sketched   in the Valle’s parking lot has never looked so inviting. After a football or hockey game, they are happily hunkered down in the BP parking lot.

            And with the range of $3 to $4 dollars, they keep their regulars satisfied as they doll out little corn (not flour) tortillas oozing with chorizo, chicken, pork and beans, and topped off with the necessary crunch of slaw that was clearly not an afterthought.

In full disclosure, I felt that the corn tortillas might have been a mistake. I’m a texture oriented eater, so corn feels mealier as opposed to the smooth nature of a flour based one.  

            But finding myself utterly satisfied, I fully revoke such absurd preconceived notions. The corny version is a sturdy boat in which much cargo can be stored on the short journey to your pie hole.

            All menu items can be made vegetarian or vegan, which is an option I readily choose to overlook. But Mike and Teri care so much for their customers that their cautionary planning has set free a product sans average allergens. No gluten up in here. The delectable melted cheese? Sure, that can go too. Can’t eat honey? You’re in luck, because they use only agave nectar as sweetener. But I beg you don’t forfeit the chorizo.

            Because the “Salma” will have you licking your flimsy white paper plate and maybe even gobbling that down too. Their herb garnish is a delightfully fresh thing that, thanks for the cilantro, momentarily cleanses your palate for yet another bite.

If I could rest my chin on the truck’s cold metal counter, while a conveyor belt continuously shovel the “Miss Piggy” down my throat, it could be a scene that would rival Homer Simpson in a donut shop. Unfortunately at $4 a pop, that could be an expensive dream.

The Piggy has not one but two porky items, that herb garnish and squishy, creamy queso fresco. And like all other menu items, is served with a fresh slice of citrusy lime. What could go wrong?

Potentially their only fault is that one is just not enough. But has taco ever enough?

I don’t think a $6 lunch is too unreasonable for the quality of food and speedy banter that will surely give you a warm smile for the rest of your day. See for yourself…

A letter to my bras before I utterly destroy them

Dear Bra(s),

Which one of you am I addressing? Frankly it’s hard to say.

The whole lingering slew of you Training Bras? Just throw yourselves away already. You haunt from an awkward past, the “training stage” of a pre-teen’s life.  By the way, training for what? Certainly not the marathon of sexual encounters I wasn’t having at a whopping 14 years old. Training my breasts to develop into a perfect commercialized shape? More likely. Training me to tolerate a lifetime of comfortless restriction? Seems right.

Lacey Lu, you’re sexy and black, but also itchy and bitchy. You unflatter me with your too-tight torturous clips which gnaw at my chubby ribs. 

But you, Mom Bra, you are the worst. At the opposite end of the feminine spectrum, you don’t even attempt to flatter cleavage. Strictly utilitarian, slightly discolored to a sweat-tinted off-white, and duct taped underwire to maintain impossible structural integrity - just sad. Grow a bow, will you?

Did I once think that your $40 superfluous selves were a modern woman’s necessity? Yes. The second drawer down in my wardrobe contains the evidence.

So I have to excuse myself when occasionally rising to the social expectation. It must have been a lack of blood flow to my brain.

You actually confound men, who subconsciously – if not consciously – appreciate your general purpose, even when they are crippled by your kung fu grip at the most inopportune times.

Maybe someday I’ll stumble upon a clothing item that necessitates you, like a wife beater, or another bra that’s too big which requires a second bra underneath. That could be applicable to next year’s Halloween costume. Yes, Halloween may be the next time I even take you out of my drawer to make my Workout Barbie costume more authentic.

Since freshman year when I nixed the daily ceremonious strapping of my breasts, quit buying new makeup, wrapped a small braided piece of my hair with colored embroidery floss and tarnished my lower lip with a tattoo simply stating “BURGER” in Helvetica font, my mother has urged me to stop “acting out” and to just “get over this phase already”.

But I’ve realized that not all (real) boobies are perfectly round, frontal orbs. Hello—100 percent of the world has nipples. Not to mention that other percentage that has 3+ nipples, including Marky Mark, man-babe extraordinaire. And I don’t think he even owned a shirt during the ‘90s.

To clarify, I’m not a bra burner, at least in the old feminist sense. I’ve never been concerned with function-over-fashion. I just don’t know that this should be every woman’s bleak respective future, engrained practically since birth.

What do I have to cover, to contain, or even to reveal?

A 15 year-long study in France found that no woman actually benefits from wearing bras. Quite the contrary. Women who functioned on a daily basis without had increased circulation and stronger muscles which directly correlated to perky breasts.

Conducted on ladies between the ages of 18 and 35, the ladies feeling the full effect of gravity even admitted to running being a comfortable activity.

It stated that if you’ve been wearing a bra for “too long” – which was of ambiguous length or age – it might be too late to save twins. I assume this meant that they may droop a bit lower than before. But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s too late to claim the comfort, posture or breathability of being braless.

Nobody is at a loss for a good full breath of air.

Needless to say, nothing has given me a legitimate reason in the past years to wear one consistently. Not even my mother can convince me, who is very persuasive, which I’m convinced is due to the fact that we share 23 chromosomes.

And up until recently, the same bra.